


Twelve Vows for the Twelfth Hour

by rufuwus



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Blood, Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Introspection, Pining, Poetry, Prose Poem, Suicide, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-10-26 21:16:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 4,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17753636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufuwus/pseuds/rufuwus
Summary: The twelfth hour tolls. Like a child, you open your palms to unveil what you’ve found within you.“This is all I have.”Midnight rings, soft. I know.





	1. Solitude

Above, the wheels of the universe turn in the primordial abyss. Snow drifts down gently from the clear sky, as if the constellations were ground to dust in the passage of time. The firs, dark sentinels, tower over the forest floor, still and silent. In the eternal night, the only sound is the crystalline chime of snow. And in the desolate vastness, life - the steady beat of a heart. The scene holds its breath, and the arch of the sky appears to cave in as the stars twinkle curiously and take a closer look.

It feels like the creature beside you cocks its head, if it only had any distinct parts. A dim pillar of scintillating light, bright flecks reflected in icy mist, shimmers condensed next to you. There is a sigh - a gaping bout of silence - and you wonder whether this is the sound unwitnessed falling trees make.

_This will go on for a long, long time_ , it tells you. You sense hands folding behind a back in a dignified gesture. Your gaze bores into the star-strewn void. Snowflakes ring like little silver bells as they catch in your eyelashes.

Time never was. There is only now, and for a very, very long while.

Why are you waiting then?

_He will never come_ , the creature says. The words are warm, but reality tempers them like glowing hot steel, and they sting.

How many breaths have you exhaled now, air leaving your lips where there should be a justification. An excuse.

_Soon you will forget your voice_ , the being reminds you.

Have you already forgotten his?

When will he come?

You have so much to tell him.

In swirls, your breath condenses and drifts away towards the moon. What are you supposed to say?

There is no one in the eternal winter night. Just like that, you are alone. You blink, and wonder what gave you pause. Like a moth in a moonbeam, you turn your face towards the one expanse bigger than yourself, and wait.

Frigid fingers of a gentle breeze strum the air, and it sings. _No one is coming_ , it sings. No one can pierce this night you wait for to end. The tears freeze where they fall. The solitude closes in further, so dense now in this lonely heart -

That it cracks.

Not a violent split, but like two worn hands breaking bread. Softly, the shallow wound floods with tears and the green of the northern lights overhead.

Under your foot, snow shifts. With a trembling step, you reveal the little noses of snowdrops, poking towards light and warmth. Crumpled and frail, but there.

The air sings. There is a shadow of a laugh in the rustle of fir needles.

_But when you are ready, there can be spring._


	2. Despair

On the deep dark ocean, there is nothing at all. Then again, such had been the Earth for countless millennia, before it blossomed to life. And so too are you fated to revolve alone in this desolation for what seems like forever. May you sink like the greatest mountains - into the abyss - in solitude.

In the great beyond that blankets the cardinal directions under its arch, a single needlepoint of light twinkles, like a lousy attempt to prick a breathing hole into this suffocating twilight, and it mocks you. Here, out at sea, but one beacon shines, so far away that you will never reach it now, lest you had started swimming a thousand years ago. So you cast your eyes to that coldly slow-blinking speck, and you sink.

After long, down trickles into up, one perverting the other. What was the endless sky is now countless of layers of cold water over your head. Or maybe you are floating in the void, longing to drop into the mirror-smooth expanse below. There are no clouds to soften the ache, no waves to soothe the grief. There is no whale song, and no dove bound for land. In the deep dark, there is nothing at all.

And you sink, with all the great things inside you - into oblivion - completely alone.

And the eye of the morning star slowly shuts, suturing the wound in the sky after there is nothing more left to bleed.


	3. Grief

Flowers bloom - as far as the winding garden road stretches towards the horizon, the path is lined with lush hues of reds and violets and blues. The viridian canopy, like a sieve, scatters flecks of gold that dance around when the wind ruffles the leaves. The trees are old. Mossy branches all twist towards the light at the end of the road, and tunnel your vision into a kaleidoscope of warm tones.

Midsummer sun heats the cobblestones. Your bare feet take you right back to those sunny childhood streets. If you ran down this path now, laughing, would you catch him again? The breeze languidly snaking through the garden whispers. _No_.

There are little blooms as delicate as a breath, and robust crane’s-bills, and swaying amaranths. You would need a god to give them all names, such is the abundance. In a stark contrast to this moment in time - you. It feels like you are fading, the white of your shirt ever more ethereal, if a wind picked up, it would blow you away like a ghost. But before you are gone, you must chase the memory unfolding with each step.

Your legs know this rhythm - this is how they carried you down those lavish hills. Your chest remembers this excited rise and fall - running, and when you looked at him - and the unmistakable twinge. You leap like your little warbler heart, and the blossoming colours turn into a blur.

At the end, at the peak of the race, you come crashing through, and this explosion - the golds and greens rend into you - shatters the illusion. The shards rearrange. You thought you’d never see him again.

_I’m not angry._

You thought you’d never get to say these things.

_I know._

You thought you’d never stoop this low.

_You are so strong._

You thought you wouldn’t go wrong, if you’d just, just-

_Hush._

_I am so proud._

A touch of comfort sears into your skin. Inhibitions fall like ashes. Soft sobs turn into screams. On a pyre of grief, your own love is the fire that licks your heels.

There is nothing he will say to save you.

You howl until your voice is raw with a barbed ferric taste. And not in blood drowns the last memory of this broken heart, but in the cinders of ruin.


	4. Rebellion

Your eyes are aflame with the defiance of those hot molten tears. Although fear had steeled you over the years, something in your core still slowly turns, stirring the… irritation, misery, the saintly composure so long winded, your moral backbone has stretched into a centipede and now it’s scuttling away into the dark. You drip with venomous agony, and it burns.

_Suffer no injustice._

You yourself face this seething creature, crack a bemused smile and cock your head. How easy it would be to snuff this pathetic view in dismissal again and again, but you choose entertainment, and fan the flames.

_Judge, jury, and executioner. And what good has power ever done you?_

It burns, **it burns**. Idle flicks of hellfire from the abyssal depths. Perhaps a god could wield them. But you?

_You’ve only ever hurt your friends._

And yourself, but was it repentance, or just to shut up, SHUT UP-

_Do you think you can lift a hand against me? Play Lucifer?_

The only warmth here is the familiar flush of drawing blood. Your clenched fists drip. Blood and tears, and it is not enough.

_Go on._

Drip, drip, drip... Forever. Maddening. How long will you bleed? Crybaby.

_Go on, end it._

There has never been a dignified fall, but you could...

_You should._

Get it over with. There should just be a coup, and everyone could go back to being happy, and an entirely new day would dawn over the future ushered in by a corrupt wish.

_Please._

 

What use is this rebellion?

 

_Surrender your defiant heart._

Give in to the white hot blaze - the only light that ever guided you has brought you to the edge of the world where everything hangs in the balance of one step. You brandish the flame.

“I refuse.”


	5. Loyalty

Bit by bit, you rise with the sun to face the day. First, you align the sense of self that had come disjointed in the wild musings of the night. You right yourself and set coffee to brew. Then, in the soft light of dawn, you stand in the kitchen as the kettle puffs, and you hold all your burdens in your hands and you say:

_Mine_.

You grit your teeth and swallow the pain like a falling star. Its fire captured, for a day, it will make your heart whole again.

Then you stir the coffee, and in the rich aromatic swirls the distorted reflection repeats a vow:

_Yours._

This is the ritual. A spell cast by someone long gone that you willfully renew. These are the unbreakable chains that you adorn yourself with each morn. This gown of shackles that you assume is what you will wear to the ballroom at the end of the world. It does not weigh on you, heavy, the duty that you choose.

Promises are feared by many, for the double edged swords they are, and a blade broken will lodge its shards in your soul. But this, this goes beyond, more than a vow, woven through you - unspoken, ungiven - you’ve taken this terrifying power and you’ve said:

_Oh, I’ll have this, thank you_.

Over and over, you choose.

_Mine is the power to be yours._

When the day of judgement falls, and all you are worth is laid out before you, he is right there too. Carried in your words and actions - a promise followed through.


	6. Wrath

_...and envy, and lust_. Ah, you only know how to take, you fucking glutton. What is there even left to be said about this thing you do, when you can’t sink your claws into your desire, and your eyes turn dark with ire - how pathetic in the daylight is a creature of the night. There are no words for the likes of you.

You who tear wounds of woe into all you hold, when your fists are filled with decay, gape, like the yawning rifts you slit in everyone. Underneath a veil of virtue, it was you who held out a hand to sin, it was you who said “I do”. A monster gets a monster’s due.

At no point was it them. It was you.

_Would you still like to be friends?_

Wolfish fiend, doubt has you well trained. You bite each hand they extend. This is what you deserve. Restitution locked away, a heart chained.

You test the bridge that spans this gap. _Sorry. Sorry. I’m so sorry._  How many will it cost to cross?

On the other side glimmer all the things that are not meant for you. Halfway there is a pull. A darkness laps at you.

Grin and bear it.

_Bare your teeth._

_Vengeful thing._

_There is no pretense that may these bindings undo._

And you wail in pain, torn between worlds by a heart so wantonly cruel, it bends your ribs and turns this husk inside out so that everyone may see the truth.

Deprived - it was _they_ who made you depraved.

**_It was they, and they will never let you take. Eat your heart. Consume its poison and all its ache._ **

It is your hatred that burns this bridge, and you drift into dark currents below.

In Styx may extinguished be the passions that you’ve sown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, dies irae... the back of the story has been broken. The end looms.


	7. Love

It is a graveyard, this circle of stones. For each pillar a name - a silent and still tribute - carved into towering proof that some lives will never be the same. And it is you who holds the chisel and chips, like kisses chaste, away at each headstone.

With a sigh, the forest exudes tendrils of fog that crawl through the night like maggots, congregating at the edges of this rotting fen. Each night, the opaque white inches closer, and when it withdraws, there is nothing left but bone. From the darkness it eyes the lonely caretaker of stone, and it _knows_.

Pull and push away, it has to end soon - your wicked game. In a circle of stones, a courtship dance, a weary bird of paradise drowning in decay. Here’s closure: they never called you by name.

_Lie down. Be still._

But you fight. Here, the candle you couldn’t hold to them is your only light. Flickering flame draws illusions from the mist like moths. Here - make your stand, back away, underneath your faltering step - the skull of a bear, a dead dove, a viper’s twisting bones.

What do you guard in this decaying grove?

Stone after stone, the waves of white purify. Memory by memory, fading away, taken from you - you _must_ let go. Return these names. Lie down. Be still. You’re alone.

Wracking the night, you howl in stolen grief and cry out borrowed lies. Your mouth moves in prayer, but there is no sound when you call - great bear, dove of peace, the serpent of your skies.

**_Give them back._ **

Pillars bleach white. You rise again in the carcass of this grave. Threads of fog linger and twist, and wring your hands when you reach out for the past.

You ache, no-name, and relight a candle with the hope that more will come, led by your fool’s fire. May they stay forever to sink in the murk of your mire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No topic quite as fit as love to propel us towards closure.


	8. Chaos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...or calamity reclaimed.

Your hand is in my hand. Yet you are so far away, when you look down your arm, the way our distance is bridged seems to be made of a thousand tentative touches that you can’t afford to feel. You give a squeeze and I am real. With a mad, silent rush of blood underneath hot skin, our link rumbles.

Hold fast. They’ll try to make us humble.

To break the storm it must be weathered.

_Are you afraid?_

The answer, in the water in your eyes, breaches like a whale - a glint between a blink - risen just to fade. But the depths beneath my facade teem with the same unrest. How can we be swallowed here when there are waters left to test?

From horizon come the humbling storm. Hold fast. The unknown is taking form.

_I’m so tired._

There’s no rest.

Stand with me and we are dead. Summon storms and call the thunder, dye the heavens gentle gold. Cry for chaos, rip asunder skies that glow a vicious red -

 

It is dusk.

 

_Say, love… come to bed?_

The clouds all shed their silver lining. Thunder rolls - a booming yawn.

The sun has set. Cast your eyes towards the dawn.

_I’m scared..._

All that may be is now bared - in the light on the horizon - laid out for the ones who dare. In descent that weighs so heavy closes in the world we knew. Do you dare - a step, a touch - to leap, have faith, til all is new?

_Hold fast._

When will you break, how will you last?

Head over heels.

Heart of chaos, eye of storm - take whatever may appeal - turn the blade and break the norm. In death, in life, and in between, the choice is ours, we will not yield.

We are discord, we are the chaos - gods unsung - now strike a chord!

 

_I want to live._

 

The day is young.

These cruel skies are ours. The horizon will be, too. Now is not the time to cower - reckoning is overdue.


	9. Respite

How long has it been? The sundial - the bars of light inching down your naked form - refuses to budge. You splay your fingers against the beams, and count the dust motes that gleam - suspended in air and time. When did you forget how a minute feels? An hour ago? Or was it a year? The only ticking, of your heart, resounds in your ears.

Covers white and fresh and soft tangle in your legs and bunch up like cresting waves. You lie still, looking lost, like a beached whale. You could try to shimmy back into the flow and rush, but this is starting to feel comfortable, and the comfort of routine seems so dull. If you were a beached whale, this would be the shore the sands of time are from, you think.

It stretches like the grasslands of the east, this lull. Somehow barren in its eternity, and you start to ponder, and not about time, but about what if. What if you slung your legs over this low little bed, and padded to the door. You think you smell pancakes and coffee, and hear a soft hum from the lower floor. Or this window covered in dusty old lace - if you pressed your face against it and sneezed, would a funny face look up in surprise from the flowerbeds below.

If you waited…

A bit more, pretended to sleep, turned your back to the door…

Would there be a drag of wool socks, and the mattress would sink. The scent of coffee becomes overwhelming. The tears overflow. Outside of time, in dreams, there is nowhere for the sorrow to go.

_There, there, love._

This is a temporary idyll, it will heal what it breaks, if you only let is pass. Does it mean anything at all to you - passing? Your breath hitches and you clutch your chest.

 _Death_ , a cold draft whispers.

And loss - time falling through your grasp.

A passing glance. Eyes meeting before he turned away and laughed at something with her. Holding this moment hostage, you are playing for time. Everything outside of this room is a lie.

How long will you lie here? How long will you lie to yourself - deny the seconds ticking by - if you want to _stop_ , stop your heart.

Everything goes on without you.

What use is this world, if the coffee goes cold, and the flowerbeds wilt, and the curtains dust a thousand times over to entertain your respite?

You aren’t beached. You don’t get to lie down for the rest of your life. Count the beats of your weary heart - each second is real. And you need to sleep, not dream.

Pull the covers over your head. Make a nice warm cocoon. Let the gentle passing of time soothe your wounds. When you emerge - and you will - be it a month from now or a dozen, you will be ready to turn your hourglass over.

All that is real has always been in the passing soft and steady. Rest now, dear heart, and join us when you're ready.


	10. Passion

Ribbons, robin red, flutter in the wind. Flowers - in your hair that’s golden in the sun - like budding thoughts are pinned. Each thought of love a daisy, ranunculus - mischief, the single poppy in your braid an omen of deep grief. When you spin and laugh and sing in this private dance, the field of gold and green accents the cruelty of chance.

Through eyes of love unseen this scene - none will know your charm - still on this day please laugh and dance and take him by the arm. Beneath your steps new flowers bloom, and where he follows suit dreams spread like weeds and grow like trees, and hopefulness takes root. On this day a hidden forest, just for two best friends, will sprout from love and care and ardor before the dance must end.

Take him to the secret meadow, show him to the crystal stream, tell him how beneath the stone rings forest spirits dream. In the sun flecks, mirror water, all around you blurs - were you a worm inside the moss then he would be a bird. Delve into this realm still deeper, til the woods turn dark. The descent slopes ever steeper. Night begins its arc.

These blooms of yours can never wilt, so part now with a few. Pluck fondest passion, jests and guilt, and tears that shine like dew. Bind these vows in ties of rose. When you part your ways, he was not fooled - he always chose - and did so for all days. For him all this and then some more in bliss of friendship once you swore.

Now break your hug and turn your backs, you have to leave this place. Mind how you go, for in your tracks, the flowers fade without a trace. Bid farewell - you may not find the way back on your own. He can return, if fate is kind, to where the sun once shone. Tug on fate like brittle thread, you will yet meet again - he knows to chase the ribbons red on plains where passions reign.


	11. Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the End.

This is the end. Congratulations, you made it. No, he is not here - what did you expect - an afterlife, hell and heaven, a personal fanfare? There’s nothing. This is the _end_. You were a writer… what did you think that word meant?

I’ve never seen you quite this lost - not in love, nor grief, or dreaming in your bed. You are not alone in the night. There is no star. No path. No grove. No field, no love, no rage, no rebellion... or hope.

_You are dead._

He is not proud, or angry, and you cannot love or touch or laugh. As far as you’re concerned now, you never were, in fact. You never lived, or left behind, or made them happy, mad, or sad. This is your free will - look now at your desire - no legacy, effect. This is what you gave them to inherit - never, forever, nothing and nil.

_I want nothing at all… I have nothing to give..._

How does it feel? To have the nothing that you wished?

 

No. Stop writing. You cannot light a spark. Not anymore, not here.

 

Solitude implies a loss, and in this place there’s none. Despair implies a dire cost. To grieve means something’s there that’s gone. Rebellion’s worth nothing here, for there are no more gods. Loyalty - to whom, in death? Wrath, with what are you at odds? Love never was, and chaos too - there’s naught to give and naught to do. Soon enough you’ll forget respite, and passion fades like mist, nothing cares not for spite, and ardor won’t be missed.

 

Welcome to nothing. Is this what you felt you had to contribute - something so hollow it eats away life? You named yourself entropy and brandished your pain, while everyone who loved you stoked your flames in vain.

 

This is what you chose.

 

Stop writing. There’s nothing more left to say. No scream, no prayer can reach out of this place.

 

You look to forever with eyes full of stars, and maybe it’s been a million years. You’re coming apart.

 

This is what you wanted…

 

Right?

 

Welcome to nothing. You were All. There is an hour to midnight - before it is gone - atone, rebuild, the void heeds your call. In a reservoir of nothing, unleash the dam. Take a deep breath…

 

_I know who I am;_


	12. Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A semicolon is but an end that can chase its own tail.

_What do you think holds everything together?_

You look at me and your brow furrows like a little caterpillar mid-crawl. After a while, it pupates into a frown. You gaze into the river of light beneath us. It looks to be some sort of way - almost milky in its dim natural light - but you don’t know where it would take. When you look into it closely, you feel moss below padded feet, and branches scratching your sides mid-leap. You feel currents against scales and feathers, skin beneath fingertips. There’s rich aromas, exotic scents, laughter and song like distant bells. The solemn tolling of a knell. If you waded in that stream, could you partake in the dream of far-far away…

 _Yes… what_ **_is_ ** _it?_

You don’t know. You can’t name the things you’ve never had. Then, the scowl takes flight from your face. I don’t know what you think of, when you shine like this, but I’d like to name you after it. You’ve always made, that is your gig - words become things - and hydrogen was probably your brightest idea. The stars illuminate the soul you wear on your sleeve. You want to plunge into… into… _that_ , don’t you, and give it a name?

You forget. We’re quite out of words. What… what is there left to say, when we have stirred the galaxies into cobwebs in our antlers, where the planets shine like dew? We have rolled in black holes, paws up, and shaken nebulas from our dirty fur. What’s left? What do you radiate with, this concept I cannot grasp, this word that does not exist? You are a mutt, a wolf-god, dyslexic, always somehow twisting your words with a twisted smirk, to make something new.

_Doesn’t it scare you, that… drive?_

But you shake your head, and from your mane falls more and more _stuff_ , begging to be called something. How do you do this…?

These are dark desires you have. To do something, make something, be someone, with someone, you want more and more and more and more, even after all is done. You put the wiggle on the semicolon, like a thrilled wagging tail, because you could not contain your excitement for what may still happen after there’s been an end.

_Start somewhere, then…_

You peer into the light. Among countless billions, a single speck looks back. Whatever it is, it has nothing to give you. It reaches out its hands like a beggar, or a noble offering a traitor gold. It’s alone, and scared, and cold. You don’t want that, do you? But you ask its name, and indeed it knows.

For that being, midnight tolls. And you witness, hungry, every hour in its story. A story that is not over. How do they linger, what hold them together? What is it, that come midnight, lets them walk soft into the dawn? What vows have they made, why won’t they fade into the aether?

You take its hand, and it glows, just like you sometimes do, with the secret fire of a god… what _is_ this desire? It asks you to look, and give a name to its last vow.

It knows who it is. It wants to go on.

_What is it that holds life together?_

You look at me, compassion encompassing you, and a word materializes, slung into this world like over cliffs a rope…

_Ah._

_I see._

_We'll call it hope._

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, I am glad you've read my first published and somewhat edited work. I've never learnt proper English grammar, so forgive my liberal use of commas, and point misuse out where you can, I'll take note. Reviews and concrit are invaluable.
> 
> If some themes feel off or oddly specific, it is intended, because this work was produced staring wistfully out a window, misty-eyed, and entirely for Me.
> 
> I will post each chapter at an interval, depending how I have the time to go over them with a critical eye.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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